Matters of the Heart
by Taluliaka
Summary: He will not weep because his friend is loved. He will not be guilty of that, at least.
1. A Courting Gift

**Matters of the Heart**

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**********Disclaimer:** _I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien. _

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Bofur loses his head when Bilbo climbs onto the burning tree branch. The hobbit is outlined in tongues of fire; his red coat burning, his hair like twisted gold dragged new from the forge. The baying of the wolves is dreadful, and the smoke singes his lungs as he tries to snatch a breath to call Bilbo's name. The hobbit's shoulders straighten, and his lips move as though he were uttering a silent battle-prayer. His sword is cold and dreadful in his hand as he marches determinedly down towards death.

Bofur scrabbles for purchase against the wood. His mattock, wedged between two branches, is the only reason he has not yet fallen. But he tries, lunging again and again for the trunk, hearing all the while the snarls and clashes and cries of battle, and knowing that Bilbo is amongst it, and unable to _do_ a damned thing, is more than he can stand. Ori screams, and Bofur turns his head in time to see Dori lose his grip on the wizard's staff, and the two dwarves fall into the darkness. Dazed with horror, he makes it at last, the stricken tree shuddering under his boots, and there are great shadows in the sky. The goblins wheel and retreat, yammering and howling in dismay, and Bofur hefts his weapon and stumbles towards the inferno, the only thought in his head to find Bilbo, in all this madness and flame, and defend him as long as he is able.

Dwalin emerges from the smoke and grabs him around the shoulders, roaring something he cannot hear. Great wings spread behind the warrior, larger than anything Bofur has ever seen, and a vicious streamlined head.

_Dragons_, he thinks foolishly as a band of iron constricts about his waist, and then he and Dwalin are yanked into empty air.

* * *

They are beautiful, light and dark heads bent together, and the clean wind playing upon them. Bilbo is swamped in Thorin's embrace, but bears it proudly. There is relief and joy clouding his eyes, and as Bofur recognises it, his energy fades. He has had a bridge and a massively corpulent Goblin King applied to his back in the past few hours, and all along his spine there is a dull throbbing pain. When he turns his head, it is like having a red-hot poker applied to his neck.

Jealousy rears its head, along with a sullen disappointment, and Bofur cannot shake himself free of them.

_He is a King_, Bofur reminds himself, as Thorin pulls back, his eyes kindled with a new flame, to regard his burglar.

He has been courting Bilbo so delicately that Bofur had only been half-aware of his intentions himself. Certainly Bilbo had never given him any sign in return, except for gentle good humour and friendship. The Company had suspected of course, looking on the two with dispassionate eyes, and indeed Nori had taken it upon himself to give Bofur suggestions, many of them postively indecent in nature, to hasten the courting process.

But now that Thorin Oakenshield had displayed his interest, and so publicly, Bofur knows he will be expected to drop his suit and stand aside. It is unthinkable for a miner to challenge a king, even in matters of the heart.

Saving Thorin is a courting gift beyond all measure, one that Bofur cannot possibly hope to match.

_Possessiveness is not love_, Bofur tells himself. _Love is a sacrifice, of time or place or life itself_.

Bilbo's face is radiant with happiness beneath the dirt and blood. Bofur will not cause him pain. What point would there be in telling Bilbo of his feelings, forcing such a choice upon him? Bofur knows the only end such a path would lead to, and if he is selfish enough to want to spare himself the suffering of it, that is his affair.

But it is very cold that night, even though the Company sleeps clustered, sharing their coats and blankets, Bilbo snug in the centre. Bofur lies on his back, bearing the pain as steadily as any dwarf worthy of the name, and lets the stars pierce him like daggers until they waver and swim before his eyes.

He will not weep because his friend is loved. He will not be guilty of that, at least.

* * *

Bofur goes to Oin on their first morning in Beorn's house. The healer has been methodically making his way through the various ailments of the Company, beginning with their leader. He would have put it off, but his back had frozen up during the night, and his bent and shuffling walk was damning to every creature with eyes, let alone Oin's raptor-like gaze.

The old dwarf spreads a salve over his bruises, muttering curses to himself as he probes at particular sensistive spots. Bofur knows enough of healers in general that their anger is very often not directed towards their patients, but rather to their ills, as though they were enemies upon a battlefield of skin and bone. And it is true enough in this case; Oin gives him a gentle slap on the shoulder to indicate he is allowed to rise.

"There's naught but time and rest that will solve it, lad." The healer tells him as Bofur pulls on his tunic.

Oin watches him wisely through narrowed eyes as Bofur crams his hat back down upon his head.

"You're doing the right thing, you know. Best not to get between a king and his dues."

Bofur doesn't consider Bilbo as _dues_, but he does not wish to get into an argument, particularly with a dwarf who merely has to remove his horn to be literally deaf to his point of view.

"Aye." He says shortly, and walks off to wander in Beorn's gardens.

Today is a rest day for the Company, and most of the dwarves are sprawled on the porch dozing or mending things, fixing clothes or cleaning their weapons. His brother is making the most of Beorn's hospitality by having his animals bring course after course of food, while Bifur sits unblinking, polishing the grime from his boar spear. They will not miss him, and Bofur is oddly enough glad for some solitude.

He lights his pipe, and follows the little paths that wind in and out of the flowerbeds. Their nodding heads are yellow and red and purple, and they remind him of Bilbo and his home nestled in the green folds of the Shire. It should not be a surprise therefore, that he emerges out of the woods on the edge of the bee-fields to find the hobbit reclining on a little hill, surrounded by clover and sunlight.

Bilbo squints into the bright day, and shades his eyes with his hands.

"Bofur!" He cries out cheerfully, and waves at him, and Bofur has no choice but to approach and carefully lower his stiff body into the shade beside him.

"Master Baggins," he says in greeting, and then thrusts his pipe into his mouth to prevent any more conversation on his end.

But Bilbo is not listening. Frown lines mar his smooth forehead as he tugs at Bofur's shoulder, trying to look at his injury.

"M'fine," Bofur protests around his pipe, but he leans forward obligingly enough and lets Bilbo see his impressive array of bruises. The hobbit has shown a remarkable tendancy towards a certain bloody-minded stubborness, and it is disconcerting to be on the receiving end.

"Oh Bofur, it looks dreadful. You _have_ been to see Oin?"

"Aye, I have. He says I'll be playing the harp again in no time. That's brilliant, especially considering I could never play it before!"

Bilbo lets out a put-upon sigh and gives him a gentle shove.

"That was a terrible joke."

"Well, fixing my sense of humour is beyond even Master Oin's expertise."

Bilbo snorts and rests his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he looks worried, and Bofur's heart lashes against its cage.

"Look, Bofur, I'm so sorry about the things I said to you, back in the goblin cave. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I was angry, and you're such an easy target, you're always so nice and positive and...and _lovely _ and I felt so horrible afterwards and I just..."

"Don't trouble your head about it, Bilbo. It's already forgotten."

Bofur is smote by Bilbo's smile. He should by now have learned to guard against it.

"I'm so glad! It's been such a weight on my mind. And we haven't had much time to talk recently, with the goblins and the wolves and then the eagles. And Thorin..."

Bilbo stops, guiltily, and glances at Bofur under his eyelashes.

"Ah, yes," Bofur says airly, trying to let nothing except mild interest show on his face. "How are you and Thorin?"

And Bilbo _blushes_, his brown cheeks blooming with warmth. Bofur cannot tear his eyes away.

"Well, it's...it's quite overwhelming, actually. Being alone with him, having all his attention on you, it's rather like being in the path of a storm. Very intense and powerful, but exciting as well. You...that is to say, you don't _mind_, do you Bofur?"

"Not at all." Bofur hears his own voice saying, and his smile is answered by one of Bilbo's.

"Oh, good, because I rather thought..."

"I don't mind at all."

Somehow, Bofur and Bilbo sit and chat until the sun begins to sink behind the trees, and Bilbo's stomach reminds them of the meals they've missed with a deep growl. They walk back to the house together, and Bofur cannot remember one thing that he said, or was said in return, only Bilbo's teeth gleaming and his eyes sparkling with good health and wellbeing and love in the sunset.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _This is a gift fic for happiness-in-a-hat on Tumblr, also known as For All Love on AO3. She requested fluffy Boffins of me, and instead received an angsty two-part story, that will (hopefully) at least have the happy ending she asked for._

_Concrit always appreciated,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


	2. Beyond All Measure

**Matters of the Heart**

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**********Disclaimer:** _I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien. _

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Bofur comes running when he hears the shouts. He has been widening a passage half-blocked with mangled stone, and he charges out onto the wall with his mattock forgotten in his hand.

"You miserable hobbit! You undersized burglar! Curse Gandalf for his choice of you - I will throw you to the rocks!"

Thorin's hands are grotesquely huge around the neck of his lover. White-faced, choking, Bilbo's eyes roll in his head to meet Bofur's horrified gaze. He is dangling in empty space, hanging from a living gallows of muscle and flesh, and he _cannot breathe_.

"Bilbo!" Bofur cries and springs forward, only to have his own weapon snatched from his hands and the handle applied hard to his stomach. Bofur doubles over, the wind driven from him, and Nori steps into his path, blocking the awful sight of the one he loves dying. Nori's eyes are dark; he shakes his head and knocks the blunt edge of the mattock against Bofur's shoulder, gently, so he might feel the weight of it.

"Thorin is not himself. He will kill you both."

Bofur tries to sidestep the other dwarf, but Nori is light on his feet and cunning, blocking him again. He reverses the mattock's head, and shows Bofur the sharp pick-edge, quirking an eyebrow.

"Nori, I won't stand here and see him killed!"

But now Bifur is there as well, shaking his grizzled head, and Bombur has a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

Mercifully, Gandalf intervenes from outside the gates of Erebor, where he stands with the men of Dale and the Elven-king, and Dwalin fetches a rope to lower the hobbit down from the mountain. As Bilbo shakily begins the descent, Thorin spits on the stones at his feet.

"You are a traitor to this Company, and no love of mine goes with you."

Bilbo flinches from the venomous words.

"Thorin, I was only... please don't..."

There are tears spilling from his eyes, gleaming in the light of the torches.

"Go!"

Bilbo disappears from view, his curly head disappearing behind the stonework, and a terrible fire rages in Bofur's heart. He pushes aside his kin and friends, and drags Thorin Oakenshield around by the shoulder to face him.

"How dare you treat him so shamefully - do you have any idea how much he adores you?"

"Get your hands off me." Thorin snarls, shaking Bofur off. His eyes are clouded, gold-blind, and he lays a hand on his sword-hilt.

"What has Bilbo ever done except help this Company? We wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for him!"

Thorin's noble features are twisted with hate. His blade rings as it parts from its sheath, and the cold weight of it settles against Bofur's throat.

"That miserable wretch _stole_ the Arkenstone and handed it to our enemy. Would you side with a traitor to our cause?"

"Uncle!" Fili roars as Thorin moves his hand, and warm blood coats the side of Bofur's neck, sliding under his shirt.

"Bilbo is not a traitor!"

"I say he is, and you with him!"

Bofur shakes with rage and grief so entwined he cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

"You are no King of mine." He whispers, and Thorin's eyes flare with madness.

Then Dwalin and Balin are between them, pushing Orcrist aside, cajoling Thorin out of his anger. Kili stands empty-handed to one side, his face drained of all colour, and Fili's face is grim as he takes away Thorin's bloodstained sword. Bombur and Bifur are likewise tugging at his arms, trying to drag him away, and Bofur allows them to, disbelief and pain stealing his strength.

Bifur leads them back into the mountain, where the foul air and thick darkness conspire to steal their breath, and Bofur wishes he were miles away, in a green field in springtime, and Bilbo laughing beside him. Erebor holds no joy for him any more.

* * *

Kili dies while Bofur is there in the healer's tent. It is a gentle death in the end for the brave young dwarf. He does not fight it, only sighs, as though he were tired at the end of a long day, and turns his cheek to the bundle of rags that serves as a pillow. There is blood matted in his dark hair, and the lines of pain on his forehead smooth away.

Bofur watches, and is struck again by Kili's youth as he lies there in death's embrace. _Mahal save him, he barely lived at all._

Then he turns and stumbles back into the sunlight, his arms aching from carrying the wounded and shifting the dead. At the back of his head he keeps an image of Bilbo as he last saw him, and looks for the shade of his hair amongst the bodies.

Bofur is digging under piles of goblin corpses, and he is so tired that there is no sharp spike of dread and hope at each flash of gold, but only a dull restlessness. At some point while he pulls and shoves at dead limbs, the smell of death rising around him, Fili follows his brother, unable to hold himself in this world when his other half had left it.

He returns to camp briefly, and lets Bombur bully him into eating. It is simple fare, stew and stale bread, and Bofur cannot taste it at all.

The Company is summoned to Thorin's tent, one after another, where the dwarf lies dying surrounded by the stripped armour of his enemies. Azog's head is mounted on a spike in the corner. Flies crawl in and out of his mouth, nudging about on the swollen tongue that protudes from the Pale Orc's lips.

"Forgive my words and actions, Bofur. I was a fool, and I would depart this world with peace between us."

What is there to say? Bofur kisses Thorin's hand and his lips burn.

Then he rises and walks out onto the battlefield once more, and weeps on the upturned faces and blank eyes of the dead who do not judge him for it.

With the setting of the sun, Thorin Oakenshield draws his last breath, and Bilbo tentatively approaches Bofur where he sits exhausted on the bare earth. At this point in time, Bofur feels more akin to the dead than the living, and Bilbo is merely one more ghost, with the dying sun caught in his hair. He stares numbly at the hobbit's shade, and it isn't until Bilbo sinks to his knees in front of him and tries to tidy the mess that his braids have become that Bofur feels his breath and the touch of his hands on his face, and the ground settles under his boots.

Bofur and Bilbo hold each other as night falls around them. They are too weary for tears, and it is a comfort to have another heart beating near that is not their own.

* * *

The door of Bag End swings open, and it is as though the years melt away. All of the Company has gathered to make the journey, and on Durin's Day they raid Bilbo's larder and feast and drink and sing well into the night.

Bilbo sits where Thorin once did, painting dreams of the Lonely Mountain, and Bofur studies the hobbit much as he did that first time, nearly four years ago. There is a weariness about Bilbo's face now, pain etched in the tiny lines drawn beside his eyes, and Bofur thinks of tracing them with his lips.

Balin makes a heartfelt toast and Oin tunelessly roars a Dwarvish drinking song. Dori and Nori sit either side of Ori, who talks and laughs with a new confidence. Gloin and Dwalin are helpless with laughter, pounding each other on the back as Bifur's hands sketch out a story. Bombur sits and eats, eyes twinkling merrily behind his beard.

They share memories of the ones they've lost, and laugh nearly as much as they cry. Bilbo has to clutch the arms of his chair for support as Dwalin recounts a story of Fili and Kili as mischievous dwarflings, and tears roll down his cheeks.

With every word, the Company blow their embers to life, and by the end of it there are no empty chairs at that table. They are very near in the golden candlelight, Thorin's steady presence, Fili's joy, Kili's fire, as they raise their glasses to celebrate the line of Durin.

Eventually they sleep, huddled on couches or spare beds, and the music of their snoring is dear and familiar. Bofur follows Bilbo, barefoot and silent, pipe in hand, and they sprawl together, loose-limbed, on the grassy sward on top of Bag End.

The stars are clear and very bright as Bilbo blows perfect smoke rings to drift in the cool night breeze. Bofur lies with him shoulder to shoulder, and the night is peaceful.

"There are days when I barely think of him at all." Bilbo confesses.

Bofur listens quietly - it is not yet time for him to speak.

"But then there are times when there doesn't seem to be a point to anything. I lie in bed and think, _how can the sun be shining, when he is dead and buried in the dark? How can the world move on, when Fili and Kili aren't there to see it?_ And I can barely breathe, like there's something pressing on my chest. How can you stand it? How do you all stand it, to walk around that place knowing that they're _under_ there... turning to dust-"

Bilbo's voice falters, and he sobs violently a few times, before muffling it with his sleeve.

"How do you stand it, Bofur?" He asks, and turns his curly head to look at the dwarf through the shivering grass of the hilltop.

Bofur's voice is hoarse and low, and his hands clutch the bowl of his pipe until they burn.

"Well, I tend to... think of you."

Bilbo blinks, and Bofur cannot read the expression in them by moonlight.

"I imagine you, in a field with flowers, and the sun just peeking over the hills. Everything is green, and the wind is fresh and clean on your face. You smile at me, and the world cannot be so dark and terrible, when I remember that you are in it."

Bilbo sobs again, a little hiccuping cry, and his fingers brush Bofur's cheek.

"How you loved me!" He chokes, and then his mouth is on Bofur's, and he can taste the tears on the hobbit's skin.

They break apart at last, and Bilbo's hands are frantic on his face, his chest, choking on his long-buried sorrow. Bofur drops his head into the hollow where Bilbo's neck meets his shoulder, and breathes deeply, slowly, trying not to shake apart under Bilbo's touch.

"How you loved me, and I turned you aside! Oh Bofur, forgive me, forgive me..."

"I forgive you." Bofur murmurs again and again against the fabric of Bilbo's shirt, the faint creases in his skin, against his lips, and cannot hide his own tears, does not wish to, not here.

They sleep at last, cradled by tree-shadows and silver moonlight, worn out on the tide of their grief, and Bofur wakes to hobbit-kisses on his sun- warmed skin, and Bilbo's slow spreading smile under the fluttering autumn leaves.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _This is a gift fic for happiness-in-a-hat on Tumblr, also known as For All Love on AO3. Thank you to Rosa Cotton for reviewing. Whether I made it better for you is...unclear. Thank you also to i am psycowriter, MissOrchid, Sunrise45 and cococamper for Favourite-ing, and everyone for following this story. _

_It both amuses and horrifies me that I originally set out to write this story as fluff._

_Concrit always appreciated,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


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